Confessions of a Diamond Dog
by Delia Soul
Summary: Perhaps Satine wasn't really the angel she's portrayed as...Nini gets a chance to tell her side of the story. **Chapter Fourteen and Author's Final Butting In (please read!) up** R&R, please...Nini would thank you.
1. June, 1900

  
June 23, 1900--  
  
Don't ask me why I'm writing this account, because I have no idea. It was an impulsive decision on my part, to snatch up a worthless book of paper I saw in a window. Foolish, as well, because I could have used the three francs I wasted on this book to buy food, or a place to sleep. The Moulin ruined me. I no longer know how to live on my own. My loss, I suppose.  
It has been four months since the Moulin Rouge, that wonderful, terrible place I called my home for far too long, closed its doors. What was the point of leaving them open, anyway? There's nothing left there for any of us. The star is dead. The writer may as well be. Harry, our beloved owner, took what he could salvage and left for England. Toulouse, that foolish , dwarfish hanger-on, has been committed to a sanitarium, as far as I can tell.  
And me?  
Me, I have been on my own, as I said. It was a shock at first, not having anywhere to turn to, having to start over. It was a slow beginning, and I confess that I still haven't got the hang of it yet. I've found a few odd jobs, but I've never been able to keep them longer than a few weeks. So, I've been reduced to what I do best, satisfying the lust of men for a fee-- a fee significantly smaller than what I'm used to. The Moulin ruined me. I find myself forgetting everything I may have learned, everything I could use. The one thing I can remember is my name, and I hold onto that. Nini Legs-in-the-Air. A name and a profession, wrapped into one small package.   
Yes, this is Nini. Who were you expecting, Satine? Everyone expects her, and who could blame them? The darling of the dance hall, the sweetheart of the stage. No, never mind all the marriages she may have ruined, all the hearts she broke, all the promises she so flagrantly forgot...no, no, that doesn't matter. Satine could do no wrong, not to Harry, not to anyone. Any other girl could have got the shit beat out of her by an unhappy customer, and she would have just been patted on the back with a hearty "The show must go on." If Satine stubbed a precious toe, the club would be overwhelmed in flowers while she lay on her bed, putting on a brave face and trying to hold back the tears.  
She sickened me.   
Do you find me callous? Do you dare to tell me I have no respect for the dead? Do you think, deep down in your heart, that I've deserved everything I've got? Well, of course you do. All you know of me is from what that silly English writer told you, and of course he never took kindly to me. Mean, vindictive, jealous Nini. How could I possibly feel such hate for such a bright and shining jewel? For the Sparkling Diamond? It is easier than you think, _Messieurs et Madames_. Satine was no different from the rest of us, just marketed better. In fact, she was worse. Much worse.  
You do not believe me,_ mes amis?_ In the days to come, I will explain to you exactly how I mean, and then, for once, you will know the truth.  
For now, however, I must put down my pen and find some work. Whores punch a time clock just like the rest. 


	2. August, 1892

  
August 23, 1892--  
  
I remember when she came to us, so many years ago.   
The club was new then, only four years old, and Harry doted upon it as if it was one of his children. Toulouse had just made his mark as our poster artist, a young Argentinean with an unfortunate condition was teaching us the steps to a forbidden dance, and Satine was nowhere in sight.  
But all things must change once in a while, and they did for us.  
Unlike the rest of the Dogs, Satine wasn't a product of the streets, no matter how hard she tried to present herself as a helpless victim of the world. She had come from moderately humble beginnings but was never down-and-out, mostly due to her numerous affairs, going up from a barkeep through more influential contacts, until she landed herself the coveted position of mistress to a government official (who shall remain unnamed). After five years of dinners and danced, rubbing elbows with the elite, she decided that she was bored with her life and decided she would try her hand with acting. It was a natural switch, as the woman had been acting for most of her life already.   
I remember when she came to the Moulin for the first time. I was younger then, only twenty-two, and I felt as if I'd already lived a lifetime. When I first saw her, being helped out of a waiting carriage by a man in an embroidered suit, her hair perfectly coifed and about twelve pounds of jewelry hanging off her neck, I had thought that an angry wife had come to drag her wayward husband from our halls and back to the manor. I hadn't paid much mind to her then, engaged as I was in bringing a potential customer back to grace our rooms, so I promptly forgot about her.   
Forgot, that it, until I saw her again inside Harry's office. I had come to ask for an advance in my pay so that I might buy a new dress, and was ushered in by a happy cry. "Nini!" Harry was looking brighter than usual, his cheeks popping out from his face. "Do come in! Here, I would like you to meet someone."  
I turned to see the other person in the room, and my jaw nearly fell to the floor. There was the same woman, except...changed. Her hair, so immaculate only hours before, lay limp around her shoulders, her jewelry gone. Instead of the rich velvet gown I had seen her in previously, she wore a plain dress which must have come from the early 80s. Smeared below her eyes were dark splotches of makeup, to make her look tired, or worn down. I can assure you, she was neither.  
"This is Satine, Nini," Harry introduced us. "She's come down on her luck recently, and has come to work for us."  
"Work?" I asked, almost speechless. "But..."  
That was the first time I caught her glare, but it wouldn't be the last. Her eyes bored into my soul, taunting, daring me to tell the truth. _Go ahead, you little mite,'_ she seemed to be telling me. _Go ahead, say something. I dare you.'_ I bit my lip and kept silent, holding out my hand instead. "I-- it's a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle," I stammered, retracting my hand when I noticed that she had no intention of shaking it.   
Harry," she said, her voice shaking with false weakness. I could feel my cheeks burning as she spoke his name. Perhaps I'm a little possessive, but I cared for him and couldn't stand this abuse of his trust. I'm a little tired," she complained. "Perhaps I could lay down a moment?  
"Of course!" he cried, alarmed. "Poor girl, I hate to see you in this state. Nini, could you please lead Mademoiselle Satine to a room? The poor dear needs her rest."  
I glanced at Satine and nodded dumbly. What else was I to do? "If you'll follow me..." I said, and added as I caught another glare, "Mademoiselle."  
"Of course," she said with a small smile, picking up the handle of her suitcase. She gave a heavy sigh as she lifted it up, her eyes full of stage pain. "Oh, my goodness..."  
"There, there," Harry cooed, taking the suitcase from her hand. "There's no need to wear yourself out like this. Nini can carry it."  
Without another word, the suitcase was shoved into my arms, and Mademoiselle Satine, the Diamond Bitch, was ours. It was a decision that would spell doom for a young writer's ideals, a Duke's dreams of love, and the home of us all. 


	3. May, 1899

  
  
  
  
May 19, 1899--  
  
A date that will live on forever, because it was when this whole business began.   
It had been a simple proposition at first. The Duke of Worcester was a powerful man, rich as all Hell, with a fondness for wine and a passion for the female gender. Satine was the greatest jewel the Moulin had ever known, a singer, dancer, and prostitute extraordinaire. It was a natural pairing, those two. A force of nature.  
At least, that's the way Satine had it figured.   
Because, unlike what Christian may have told you, Harry wasn't the man who set the whole thing up. No, not at all! I loved Harry, we all did. He was our father and saviour, the man who dragged us out of pubs and lodging houses, slapped some makeup on us, and turned us into the Diamond Dogs. He was a sweetheart, but the man, sad to say, was nearly helpless when it came to running the club we came to cherish as a haven from the outside world. He could be influenced, and was, by a Diamond, or a purse full of change, God save him. Satine though...Satine was another story.  
She had all the angles figured from day one. The Duke had first been brought to our club by a group of friends, who promised him a few hours away from the cares of the world. The poor man needed it. From what I managed to glean from China Doll, the club's biggest gossip, he'd been struck down by a double calamity that would have killed any weaker man. Three months earlier, he'd lost both wife and child in a boating accident on the Seine that had nearly took his life as well. He'd spent weeks moping about his home, not speaking to anyone, when a few friends' had dragged him to our humble abode despite his protestations.  
The first time I saw him, he was sitting in a dark corner, staring into his champagne, oblivious of his surroundings, of the music, of the half-naked women enticing him to dance. Satine, who at this time was still speaking to me, sidled up next to me with a slow smile on her face. Do you see that man, over there, Nini? she asked. Do you see him?  
I nodded. Oui. Who is he?  
The Duke of Worcester, she announced proudly. One of the richest men in France, and a recent widower. Look at him sitting all alone. He looks quite foolish.  
Have a little pity, Satine, I argued. He's just lost his wife.  
Satine laughed in my face. You great soft pudding, Nini! He's rich, Nini, very rich, and that's a wonderful thing for this club. In fact, there's no better thing that the Duchess could have done for us than to sink like a stone.  
I-- Satine!   
She turned on me then. Mademoiselle Satine to you! she barked, her eyes fierce. Never forget that, you little slut! Never!  
Oui, Mademoiselle, I said humbly, watching as she strode off to the adoration of the crowds that fanned at her feet. As she stepped out onto the main floor, I noticed that the Duke looked up from his champagne, perhaps distracted by all the fanfare. For a moment, I thought I saw a change, like his face lit up for a moment, but it was only fleeting and the shadow quickly passed over his face again. But that one fleeting instant where he lost his troubles in the glow that was Satine...no, no, that sealed his fate. And Satine, that conniving little gold-digger, knew it.  
The plan wasn't revealed to me until much later, and then only by accident. It had been a long night for me, and had decided to take a stroll around the grounds, just to wear myself out enough for sleep. I enjoyed walking the Moulin at night. I had been there since its opening ten years ago, since Harry had scoured the dance halls and bordellos for the best girls to grace his floor. It was an honour, being one of the first-picked, and I felt that I had as much claim to the Moulin as he did. It was an old friend, and the longest residence I had ever known. It was home, and I loved it.  
My night wandering took me to the foot of the Elephant, the great behemoth of the yard that the star called her rooms. The door that normally led to the belly of the beast (and the belly of a dancer, although we didn't disclose _that_ fact to the public), was shut tightly, but the lights were still on in the head. I paused under the trunk, looking up as I heard voices carried by the night breeze.  
But, Harry, it's perfect! I could hear Satine protest, and I could imagine the well-practiced pout that spouted the words.  
Sparrow...it just doesn't seem right. Surely there's another way to get the money... This was Harry talking, and from his voice I could tell that he'd had just as hard a night as myself. Show business is a young man's game, especially the rough and fast type that the Moulin offered, and although he never would admit it, the nightly stresses of organising and executing us all in our productions was beginning to wear him down. I suppose this is how he fell so swiftly into Satine's claws, painted as they may have been. Business is...  
Excruciatingly slow! Satine cried in anguish. Who's going to get the money for us, Harry? Toulouse, with those silly, worthless doodles of his? Audrey, who couldn't write a line to save her life, assuming she even _is_ a she? Oh, perhaps Satie, with that dithering, nonsensical bullshit that comes out of that piano? Even if they were to somehow get their wits about them, it would take time to make _nearly_ as much money as needed! You need me, Harry, don't forget that!  
Satine, I'm not contesting you, he argued. But the man's not well, any fool can see that! He's weak, and...  
And all the better! she answered. He'll be only too glad to invest, once I...  
I'd had enough. Very carefully I left my station under the trunk and hurried across the yard, trying painfully not to let my shoes clatter against the yard. apparently I didn't try hard enough, because I heard Satine's shout after me. Who's there? she barked, then softened her voice quickly. Hello? Who is it?  
I turned and looked up to see Satine and Harry standing at the heart-shaped window, staring down at me. Harry narrowed his eyes. Nini? Is that you?  
I...yes, Harry. Just taking a walk.  
Satine stared down her nose at me. You didn't, by any chance...hear anything, did you? her voice was casual, but her eyes demanding.  
Now, I'm not the smarted girl in the world, I'll admit, but I do know when to keep my mouth shut. I shook my head. Why, no, Mademoiselle, I said innocently. You don't think there's a burglar out, do you? I widened my eyes, imitating worry. Of course, I wasn't, and anyone closer could have seen that, but they were far enough a way to not notice.   
Harry smiled warmly. No, no, dear. Now, trot on off to bed. Tomorrow's another busy day.  
I nodded and bowed my head. Oui, Harry. _Bon nuit_, Harry, Mademoiselle Satine. I turned on my heel, walking quickly back to my room and trying to ignore the pit of dread that was forming in my stomach. 


	4. The Arrival, 1899

  
  
  
  
  
The Arrival, June 1899--  
  
I heard about him before I ever lay eyes on him.   
The summer had descended on Paris in a wave of artists and tourists trying to capture the mystical glow of the City of Lights, for entirely different reasons. The play, such as it was, being only a quarter of a way finished and starring only Toulouse and the Argentinean (and him only when he as awake enough to get in rehearsals), was being developed in the attic rooms of the building across the road. Audrey had sketched out rough details that no one, not even Harry, was allowed to see, and from my room I could often see their shadows in the windows, laughing and getting soaked to the gills, courtesy of that impish little tart, the Green Fairy.   
I would not have known about him in the first place, if Toulouse hadn't been in her company for five hours at a stretch. I encountered the dwarf (oh, sorry-- _petite personne_' as he preferred to be called) sitting in the corner of the Moulin long after it was closed, his hat tipped over his nose, slumbering peacefully as the floors were mopped to wait for tomorrow. I shook his arm, eliciting a drunken grunt that floated out on a cloud of absinthe. I chided him, pulling on his arm. Get up, you can't sleep here.  
He opened his eyes blearily, apparently having a hard time in focusing them. he asked groggily. Is that you, _ma cherie?_  
No, it's Chocolat, I said irritably as I hauled him to his feet. C'mon, Harry will have you thrown out forever if he sees you like this. Stand up!  
He hiccuped slightly and planted his feet on the ground, swaying gently. You always were the maternal type, Nini.  
Oh, stuff it. I grumbled, watching him as he took a few tentative steps towards me, holding his arms out for balance. He looked like a creature I'd seen in a sideshow tent once, an Amazonian Pygmy. Had he been of lower a social class, that may very well be where he would have ended up. My musings were interrupted by a loud hiccup, and then he fell forward suddenly, throwing his arms about my waist to keep from landing flat on his face. I cried in surprise and irritation/ Kindly remove yourself from my person, _s'il vous plaît_!  
Give me a moment, he said, looking up at me through clouded eyes. My God, Nini, you are a beautiful girl, he breathed, the smell of alcohol coming from him in waves. Why don't we leave the Moulin Rouge together, hmm? Travel the world, searching for truth and beauty...the _petit capitaine _and his blushing bride?  
That's the absinthe talking, I informed him, pushing him back up. For God's sake, Toulouse, don't make me drag you all the way back home! I've got to get some rest as well.  
What's wrong with getting a little drunk once in a while? he asked as we began our slow journey to the doors. Besides, tonight's worth celebrating!  
I asked. And why's that? Did Jane Avril roll into town? Jane was a dancer that Toulouse had become quite smitten with, drawing her likeness several times but never getting the the nerve to present her with one of his pieces.   
If only... he said wistfully. No, for an entirely different purpose indeed! _Spectacular Spectacular_ is finally up and rolling!  
I asked. The secrecy about the project was such that we weren't even told about the title. What are you going on about, then?  
Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this, he said as we made our way out to the courtyard. But the stars are out, I'm pleasantly drunk, and you're looking very cuddly tonight. _Spectacular Spectacular_ is what will make our names once and for all, he announced. A pageantry of light and sound, music and dance! And, with our new writer on our side, we'll have it finished in a few weeks.  
New writer? I was really curious now. Audrey had never been known to quit a play, and had certainly never allowed anyone else to take us where he...she...left off. Now, then, Henri, I said, prodding him a little. What's this new writer you're talking about? I'm _dying_ to know.  
The night air seemed to regenerate Toulouse, and to my satisfaction the combination of absinthe and sensory overload loosened his tongue quickly enough. He's English, very young, and goes by the name Christian.  
Oh, really? Do go on.  
And he's agreed to take over from where Audrey left off, he reported happily. Fresh ideas, new perspectives...Nini, for once everything is going right! It'll be...spectacular!  
Hmm, I'm sure it will be, Henri, _mon cher_, I answered, my voice a teasing purr as I led him across the road. And when can I meet this Christian? Or are you going to keep him locked up the rest of production?  
Toulouse shook his head. I really shouldn't- oh, excuse me, he said as a bubble hiccuped from his mouth. I really shouldn't have told you anything. If the others find out, they'll be quite upset. I trust you to keep this a secret, Nini?  
But when will I meet him? I insisted. His secrecy was beginning to intrigue me. Who was this mysterious English writer?  
Patience, Nini, patience, he admonished me as he fumbled for his keys. You'll see tomorrow night. I'm bringing him in, too meet Satine.  
The star. It figured. Nevertheless, I put a smile on my face and patted his hand. Well, then, I suppose i'll just have to wait in breathless anticipation. Bonne nuit, Henri.   
As I walked across the road back home, I could hear Toulouse' drunken serenade from his rooms, an ode to beauty, love, truth, and absinthe. We'd be needing all of that in the days ahead. 


	5. A Night to Remember, 1899

  
  
  
  
A Night to Remember, 1899  
  
  
They called it 'The Summer of Love', for God knows what reason. Me, I never saw any more love that summer than at any other time in my life, but if that's the way the world wants to remember it as, who am I to protest?  
I suppose it was a summer of love for some people, for different reasons. For Harry, that summer was to prove his love for the theater and the underworld, for the Duke on Monroth, it was a chance to rekindle what had died in him, and for a young, refreshingly naive writer from England...well, I think he's told you what _he_ felt, hmm?   
I had the privilege (if you could call it that), of watching the whole sorry affair begin. Toulouse, true to his drunken word, had come that night, his fellow Bohemians in tow. They always seemed to travel together in a pack. Very rarely did you ever see one without at least another, except when Jane came to town...well, enough of that. Toulouse's infatuations have no place in my narrative, and I'll leave it at that.  
I saw Satine shortly before her first number-- you know, a kiss on the hand is quite continental and all that tripe. I don't know who writes our production numbers, but they really need to get some more inspiration. There's only so many ballads about money and love that a girl can sing before she gets bored with the whole idea and runs off to join a convent.   
Satine was in her dressing room, getting squeezed into an outfit and looking extremely uncomfortable. Lots of girls I knew always looked up at the trapeze with big eyes, wishing that they could someday become the Sparkling Diamond. I never really took to it, myself. Sure, I would've liked the fame and extra money-- who wouldn't?-- but it looked like too much work for my tastes. Marie finished lacing her up and Satine let out a huge gasp of air. "_Mon Dieu_," she breathed, rubbing her ribs. "Can't you get this any looser?"  
"Now, now," Marie chided. "Don't complain, my girl. It's attractive, that's what matters."  
"Yes," Satine nodded in agreement, pulling on her gloves. "Exactly." She noticed me hanging around the door and called to me. "Nini! There's no good in standing out there like a fool. Come in."  
I walked in, watching her put on her makeup. "Harry wants to know if you'll be ready soon," I reported. "They've got the swing set up."  
"Hopefully it's been padded since the last time I was on that horrible contraption," she grumbled, smearing on her lipstick. "It gave me a crease across my fanny that lasted two days. Did you see the Duke?" she asked hopefully.  
I nodded, remembering him sitting in a dark corner with his massive bodyguard. "Yes, i saw him," I answered. "And the new writer, as well."  
"Writer?" Satine asked, interested. "You mean Audrey's quit?"  
I shrugged. "Apparently. Toulouse brought him in tonight. He's English, I've heard. Young."  
Satine raised an eyebrow with a smile. "Well, well," she said, touching up her eyeliner. "And how exactly does Harry plan on paying this new writer, hmm?"  
"Harry doesn't know he's in the production."  
"And you do? How very amusing." She looked up at the clock and grunted. "Well, this has been a lovely talk, Nini, but I really must be going. Time is money, after all."  
I nodded and stepped aside for her. She smoothed down her hair and held her chin up, walking past me towards the door. She didn't quite make it, however. As she got to the door she paused, one hand on the knob, the other on her chest. I watched as she took a few laboured breaths , closing her eyes, her jaw set. I looked at her. "Are you all right?"   
Satine opened her eyes, wide and glassy. "I-- oui, Nini, I'm fine. Just...just a little flustered, that's all." she smiled again, straightening back up. "I'll see you on the floor. Au revoir, Nini."  
  
The young English writer was seated with Toulouse and his cronies in a darkened booth, conveniently located next to the Duke. I suppose they were seated there to make Satine's searching not quite so obvious. What we had at the Moulin was 'organised chaos' as Harry liked to call it. No matter how insignificant or spontaneous it seemed, everything, down to the shoes the back chorus girl was wearing, was planned.  
Therefore, Satine's seduction of Christian was no accident. She'd already seen the Duke, and knew that the man she was pulling onto the dance floor was not interested in the least in investing (like all of Toulouse's friends, he was penniless-- even though I understood that Toulouse himself had quite a bit of money stashed away...but that's another story altogether). Satine was intrigued by the new arrival, and like a dog among new playmates, had to sniff out every inch of him to see what he was about.   
Christian was returned to his seat promptly, and spent the remainder of her number sitting dazed in the corner, blinking slowly. I think this was all a little too much for him to absorb at once, and Satine wasn't exactly known for her subtlety. The Duke, meanwhile, couldn't keep his eyes from her, for once looking at something else besides his champagne. I confess that, although we were not great friends and never would be, I was grateful to Satine for managing to pull him out of his shell, even if it was for just a night.   
I wasn't on the floor when she fell.   
No, I was backstage, having a little absinthe of my own (but not nearly in the quantities that Toulouse seemed to pack it away), when I heard the horrified cries coming from the dance floor. There was the sound of hurried movements, and then Chocolat burst backstage, carrying Satine in his arms, the feathers covering her giving the impression of a bird shot out of the sky. It was really a sorry sight, I'll say that for the woman. She probably would have given an eyetooth in thanks for not being conscious at the moment, because being surrounded by people and talked over in hushed tones would have humiliated her.   
I watched over the scene for a moment before taking another sip of absinthe and saying the line that would immortalise me as an unfeeling bitch: "Don't know if that Duke's going to get his money's worth tonight."  
There was a general gasp and volley of stares, and a girl frowned at me "Don't be unkind, Nini."  
Unkind? How was I being unkind? I was merely stating a fact! And, for the sake of twelve words, I have been portrayed as the girl who didn't care whether Satine lived or died, the girl who was jealous of all the attention, the girl who nearly ruined the greatest love ever know.  
But you will soon learn, _mes amis_, that appearances can be all too deceiving.


	6. First Rehearsal, 1899

  
  
  
  
First Rehearsal, 1899--  
  
"All right girls, wake up, wake up! It's a busy day, let's not spend it in bed!"  
This lovely cry was screamed nearly in my face one morning as Marie went door-to-door, rousing the sleeping Dogs from their kennels. Due to my seniority, I only had to share my room with China Doll, who grumbled as she pulled herself out of bed. "What on God's green Earth are we doing up?" she frowned, looking at the clock. "It's only eight! Here, lace me up, will you?"  
I crossed over to her side of the room and pulled steadily on the laces of her corset as she held the bedpost. "First rehearsal's today," I told her. "Harry wants us up bright and early."  
"First...oh, yes, I forgot." She sucked in her stomach as I yanked the laces tighter, taking small breaths. "Didn't Toulouse tell you something about that?"  
"No, but the Green Fairy certainly did. All I know is that the Duke is backing it, Christian the Englishman is writing it, and Satine is starring in it. Of course."  
"Now, now," she chided me. "Don't sound so bitter. Why do you hate her so much? She's always been nice to me."  
"Everyone's nice to you," I argued. "What's there not to be nice to? Me, I'm different. People just...I don't know. I'm just not very well-liked."  
"Maybe if you tried just a little..."  
"To do what?" I snapped. "Be _Petite Mademoiselle Parfaite?_ That's not me, China, you know it isn't!"  
"Fine!" she laughed. "Don't bite my head off, I was just..."   
"Girls!" Marie poked her head in the door, her face cross. "Come now, girls, hurry up! Monsieur Zidler's waiting for you!"  
"We'll be there in a moment," I called back sweetly, watching her shriveled face duck back into the hall. I turned back to my roommate and grumbled. "I wouldn't want to miss _this_ for the world."  
  
The rest of the girls were already on the floor when we arrived. I sunk back into the crowd, trying not to be noticed but at the same time vying for a view of the production heads. "Gather 'round now, my diamonds!" Harry cried from his usual vantage point. "Now, today's a very big day for all of us, as I'm sure you've all heard. Today, we start work on the greatest piece of theater the world has ever known..._Spectacular Spectacular!_"  
There were the obligatory cheers from the girls, and I joined in absently, my mind more occupied with the title. Frankly, it seemed a little redundant to me, and what did it have to do with the story? But I shot my attention back to Harry as he continued, gesturing to his side. "Now, I'd like to introduce you to our new writer, who's agreed to helm the project after the unfortunate departure of our dear Audrey." There were no sad cries from the girls at this statement. I was pretty sure they were all glad to be rid of her, considering her almost fanatical obsession that not one line of her precious work be altered. It got quite tiring.   
There _was_, however, a bit of a commotion when the new writer stepped up to the podium. One of the girls, Arabia I think, whistled up to the balcony, which caused the Englishman's face to turn red as a radish. This in turn caused a rupture of giggling from he rest of the girls, who were only silenced by a glare from Harry. The Englishman cleared his throat, and croaked out some of the worst French I've ever heard in my entire life. "_Messieurs et Madames_," he announced to the all-female throng below, none of which were old enough to be called Madame. "My name is Christian, and I am the writer for _Spectacular Spectacular_, the new play." He coughed and cleared his throat. "_Excusez-vous_. The play is set in India, and is about a Hindu courtesan and the penniless sitar player with whom she falls in love. Before I go any farther, are there any questions?"  
A younger girl in the back piped up. "Where's India?"  
"I...um, a good question! That's a good question! It's in..._L'Asie?_ Is that right, _l'Asie_?" He received a positive nod from Harry and grinned, evidently proud. He continued. "The play stars Mademoiselle Satine as the Hindu Courtesan, and our amigo Señor Jose as the penniless sitar player."  
This last remark was greeted by a burst of talk, all of it questioning whether the audience could accept a sitar player with such a heavy Spanish accent. No one seemed to wonder whether the audience was willing to accept a blue-eyed redhead as a Hindu courtesan, and the murmurs soon died down. I looked up to see where Satine stood beside Señor Jose, a smile permanently affixed to her face, dressed in yet another thousand-franc ensemble. The Moulin would probably never have had to go to outside backers if they'd just scale down the budget for Satine's personal wardrobe, but, of course, that would never happen. Only the best for the Sparkling Diamond.   
I missed something Christian said, but it was greeted by a smattering of applause, and so joined in all the same. Satine cleared her throat, silencing the applause, and beamed down at us. "Before we begin our rehearsals," she said, "I'd just like to take this opportunity to say how honoured I am to be working with such a diverse and talented group of performers." (Perhaps this meant that she would talk to us more than once a week-- an interesting concept.) "_Spectacular Spectacular_ is, in my honest opinion, one of the greatest works modern theater has ever seen, and will revolutionize performance art forever!" Satine paused for dramatic affect, while the rest of the girls tried to figure out just what the Hell she had said. She took a deep breath, her face shining. "And now, I'd like to introduce the man who's made this all possible-- please, let's give the dearest Duke a hearty Moulin Rouge welcome!"  
There was more applause and cheering as the Duke, who I hadn't noticed before, stepped up to take Satine's place at the podium. He looked at her adoringly for a moment before turning his attention to us, swallowing. "My dear ladies," he began, his voice raspy. "I'll be the first to admit, I know little about the theater, and even less about acting. Therefore, I will not have much involvement in the creative process, other than to offer ideas, but I trust the writers to keep it moving smoothly. Part of the responsibility rests, I believe, on you, but if we all work together, we can make this play a success. I'm sure that it will be a delight working with you. Thank you, and good day."  
  
The script, such as it was, was handed to us as we filed back to our rooms. It was really no more than a few pages clipped together, more of an outline than anything else. The girls were talking excitedly about something called the 'Tantric Cancan' that had been written into it, and China Doll was flipping through the pages, frowning. She looked up at me and held up the script in disdain. "Love conquers all," she announced. "Again."  
I shrugged and opened a bottle of scotch, taking a long pull. "Well, maybe it's not the most original thing in the world," I said. "But at least it's..."  
"Hey, come over here!" this was Arabia, trying to contain her laughter. "Come on, hurry! Wait until you see _this!_"   
China Doll and I looked at each other for a moment before trudging out into the hall, towards a large swarm of girls crowding the windows. I pushed my way through them to a spot, and was surprised at what I saw. Our rooms were tucked away in the back of the club, facing a long narrow street lined in shops cramped together like dominoes. The street I had seen a thousand times, but what was in the street was a real shocker.  
Satine, the Sparkling Diamond, star of the show, queen of Montmartre, was in a darkened corner of the street, absorbed entirely in the man in her arms. She was showering him in kisses, nearly propping him up against the wall. At first I couldn't quite see who it was, but then she finally removed her face from his and there was a burst of laughter as we saw that it was the Englishman, Christian, his face red and his eyes wide. Môme Fromage laughed, her hand on the glass. "Well, well," she grinned. "This is certainly an interesting turn of events, isn't it?"  
"Who would have thought?" someone piped up from the back. "Satine and the writer! It's almost too good to be true!"  
It _was_ almost too good to be true. Something seemed off with the arrangement, but I didn't voice this to the others, engrossed as they were in their voyeurism. Maybe I'm cynical (Hell, I _know_ I am), but something seemed wrong with this. I'd heard of love at first sight, and it was the subject of many a night's song, but Satine had just met the boy the night before! And to think that the Ice Queen could have melted so easily? It really _was_ too good to be true. A flash of fear crossed my mind then, that no one else seemed to regard. Satine wasn't supposed to be carrying on with the _writer_ of the play, for Christ's sake. That should have been the backer there in the road, not the writer! If anyone was to find out about this, the Moulin would lose the money that Harry (and the rest of us), were so dependent on. We needed that money.  
I didn't know what was happening, and I didn't know why it was happening, but I did know one thing--  
It had to stop happening. Immediately.   
And I was going to see that it did.


	7. A Simple Plan, 1899

  
  
  
A Simple Plan, 1899--  
  
  
I know that you must think that I acted out of jealously. I can assure you, _mes amis_, that this was not the case. I was not jealous of Satine for her new love, not at all. If, in truth, she really was in love and not just acting (it's often hard to tell with those like us), I was happy for her. I long ago gave up any thoughts of love, because I know that what I have in mind can't possibly ever play out. It just doesn't work for us that way.   
Instead, I was motivated by a feeling far heavier on my mind than jealousy-- fear. No, I wasn't crawling under my bed, sucking my thumb and crying, but a worm of worry was creeping into my mind and I couldn't kill it so easily. Satine had carried on her infatuations before, but never when the Moulin was at stake, and certainly not when she was attached to someone else. I knew the implications if she was caught, and they weren't pleasant to think about. The images of the Moulin shut down, Harry's reputation ruined, and the Dogs turned out onto the streets were stuck in my brain and they wouldn't leave no matter how hard I tried to force them out. I had come to the Moulin as an opium-addicted, nineteen-year-old drunkard that Harry had pulled out of the back room of a disorderly house, and I had no intention of returning. And although they would never voice their feelings, I knew that the other girls felt the same way.   
China Doll was asleep when I returned to my room, my feet prickling with pain from too many dances in tight shoes. I turned the lamp on low, trying not to wake my roommate, and dressed for bed, rubbing my aching muscles. For a long time I lay in bed, looking around the room at the various souvenirs from our lives-- tattered photographs, scandal sheets, posters that Toulouse had given us. Documentation of the lives of two whores. What a dreary thought.   
I was still chewing over the dilemma that the Moulin faced in the form of Satine and her Englishman. I knew that the other Dogs, concerned though they may be, would allow Satine to continue on this road out of respect and loyalty. They would never speak up, not to the Sparkling Diamond. It was unheard of. I'll admit, I wasn't too keen on the idea of confronting her myself. However, if anyone was to do it, i would have to be it. None of the other girls would ever dare. It's tough being the club bitch.   
As I lay looking up at the posters illuminated by the electric lighting outside, a germ of an idea began to form in my head. If I couldn't confront Satine face to face (and there was no way in Hell that I _would_), there were other ways to express my feelings, and retain some sort of hidden identity. I got up and moved carefully to the desk near the door, setting the lamp down on the dark wood. Pulling open a drawer, I took out a sheet of paper and a pen, pressing my lips together in concentration. I'll admit, I'm not the most literate woman in the world, having only learned my letters from an old customer of mine, a university professor who found time between our lessons' as he called them, to teach me a little of what he knew.   
I started to write my letter, not bothering to disguise my handwriting as I knew that Satine wouldn't have recognised it anyway. We don't exactly write each other everyday. It wasn't easy to express myself, so I kept to small, simple words that I misspelled anyway-- like I said, I'm not the most literate. Maybe that looked better, like it came from a random street person and not from a Diamond Dog. When I was finished, I leaned back and read my letter in the low of the red lights.  
  
_Mademoiselle Satine, _[I wrote]_  
I'm wryting on behalf of the Duke of Monroth, who's a very deer frend of mine. It's come to my attenshun that you've convinsed him to invest in a play at your club, and that he's paying for your lifestyl, too. I also know that you're having an affair with the wryter of the play, and are not being true to the terms of your contract, and I have the power to tell M. Zidler. Mademoiselle, break off your relashuns with the wryter, or else you'll have to face the concequenses of your actions. the choice is yours but I advise you to end your affair before everyone finds out and the Moulin Rouge shuts down and you loos your job.  
Sined,   
A Frend  
  
_Perhaps it wasn't the most professional job in the world, but I was new to blackmail and so I forgave myself. I folded the letter and stuffed it in an envelope, addressing it to the Moulin Rouge. I stood up and threw a coat on, opening the door a little. It squeaked on its hinges, which elicited a groan from China Doll. she grumbled from her bed. Is that you?  
Go back to sleep, I commanded. I'll be right back.  
Back? It's-- I heard her fumble for her clock. For God's sake, Nini, it's four in the morning. Where are you going?  
That's none of your business. Now go back to sleep. I left the room, shutting the door behind me and creeping carefully down the hall to the stairs. I could here the combined breathing of the roughly sixty Dogs (we were always gaining and losing girls, so it was hard to come up with an exact figure), and kept an eye out for Marie, who kept unusual hours to catch any girl who tried to sneak out after curfew. Fortunately I caught her napping instead, and left through the back way into the cool night air of the street behind the club, the street where this sorry business began nearly a week ago.  
I was almost alone on the street, except for a few drunk men hanging around the front of a closed pub, who felt compelled to shout things that they thought incredibly witty and original at me. I ignored them and continued on my way, towards the letterbox stationed at the corner of the hotel where Toulouse (and now Christian) resided, the bright _l'amoure_ lighting up whatever street wasn't bathed in the Moulin's red light.   
I paused a little in front of the letterbox, the letter trembling in my hand. If I did this, God knew what the consequences for me were. But I knew that if I didn't...well, I didn't want to think about what would happen if I didn't go through with it. I rested the envelope on the lip of the letterbox and closed my eyes. My heart was racing and my palms were getting slippery. I'd never felt this nervous in my entire life, or more in the need of a stiff drink. _Come on, Nini!_ my mind screamed at me. _You've gone this far, there's no point in turning back now._ I tried to shove the voice away, and swallowed hard, my throat dry.   
_Dieu m'aident! _I breathed, and pushed the letter inside. 


	8. Aftermath, 1899

  
  
  
Aftermath, 1899--  
  
  
It was hard to look at Satine for the next few rehearsals. While she practiced her lines, shot eyes to the Duke or Christian, or went over scene revisions, I tried to keep out the way as much as I possibly could. Every moment I dreaded being called over to the side by Harry, being talked to in firm whispers, Nini, Satine handed me a letter just now...  
However, it seemed that I had nothing to worry about. If Satine showed any recognition, or that she'd even received the letter at all, she didn't show it. She bantered playfully with the rest of the cast, laughed as she tripped over dance steps or muddled lines, and acted as if nothing was amiss at all. In fact, she seemed in higher spirits as the days passed. I began to relax a little, my worries temporarily abated. Perhaps the letter had got lost in the mail, or was intercepted by someone else. Either way, it seemed that I was in the clear.   
Rehearsals broke for lunch, and the girls crowded the doors to get to the cafés that lined the streets, as well as potential business. We had all been so busy with rehearsing this play that our personal incomes were dropping at a steady rate. I avoided the crush at the door-- thirty hungry, tired women trying to squeeze through one opening-- and instead headed towards the smaller door backstage, away from the crowds.   
As I passed a block of dressing rooms, I paused a little, pricking up my ears. A shaft of light filtered through the crack under a door, and I looked up to see the name painted on it in elegant script: Satine. I knocked gently on the door, hearing ragged breaths coming from the other side. Mademoiselle? Aren't you coming to lunch? Harry would like...  
Go away! she shouted from the other side, her voice heavy and choked. Just...just go away, Nini! Everyone, just go away!  
I asked, startled. I...is anything wrong?  
her voice was a warning, but softened gradually. I heard the scrape of a chair, then the lock on the door click open. I stepped back as she opened it, surprised at her appearance. Her makeup was smearing down her face, her eyes red and cheeks wet. She sniffed into her handkerchief, her eyes wide. she asked, her voice almost frighteningly small. Can I speak to you, for just a moment?  
I was surprised. This was the first time she'd ever asked permission. I nodded and came closer. Oui, of course. What's wrong? You look a fright.  
She glanced around the corner before waving me in. Please...I don't want anyone else to hear.  
I narrowed my eyes and walked into the room, the air heavy with perfume. Satine took one last glance outside and then shut the door, turning the lock. I frowned. Now, then. What's this all about?  
I...I don't really know myself, she said, crossing over to where a creased piece of paper lay on the table. she said, picking it up and thrusting it at me. Here, read this, she ordered. And tell me...tell me what you think.  
I unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly, seeing my own shaky writing stare back at me. I put the letter down, looking up at her. When did you get this?  
This morning, she said, sniffing into her handkerchief. I opened it and...oh, God, Nini, who would write such a thing? It's so...I can _feel_ it, she declared. I can feel all that hate, and I... she stopped, burying her face in her hands. Oh, God. Oh, God.  
Have you told Harry? I asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.  
she moaned. I can't tell him, Nini, I just can't! He'll want to look into it, and then everything will fall apart...  
In truth, I was grateful for these words, because if Harry or anyone else were to recognise the handwriting, I would be kicked out without a second thought. A notion wormed its way into my mind then, and I looked up. Burn it, I said. Just burn it. Get it out of here, don't think about it anymore.  
But Nini...  
Just do it! I snapped, perhaps a little harsher than I intended because she flinched a little. I made my voice softer and rubbed her shoulder. Listen, whoever did this probably just needed to yell at someone. I don't think it'll happen again. Now, will you just do what I say, Mademoiselle? It'll ease your mind.  
She clasped my hands suddenly, startling me. Do you think so? she asked in a whisper. Do you...do you really think it was only once?  
I nodded. Oui, Mademoiselle. Don't worry about it. I know how these people work, I added. And once they get their anger out, they don't tend to repeat it.  
Satine looked up, a ghost of a smile flickering onto her face. I...yes, Nini, I'll do that.  
Right away.  
Yes! Right away! she stood, her smile broadening. There's no good thinking about it, is there? The show must go on! I watched as she picked up the letter and took it over to the rubbish bin before striking a match and lighting the corner of it. It burned slowly, the corner darkening before hot ash fell into the bin, more and more before she was forced to drop it. The smell of burning paper filled the room, and she opened a window, fanning it out.   
I stood and crossed the room to stand near her, my hand on her arm. Tell me something, Mademoiselle, I said quietly. Is it true?  
Is what true? she asked, startled.   
What the letter said. About you and the Englishman. Is it true?  
I...oh, God, Nini. How do you want me to _answer_ something like that? she sighed. I know...I know that it's not right, and I know that I'm putting everyone at risk for this. It's just that I...  
Love him?  
That's just it, I don't _know!_ she moaned. I mean, I think I do, and I know that he's mad about me, it's just that... she stopped herself, shaking her head. No. No, Nini, I'm not going to talk about this with you. Not with anyone! Now, she took a breath and looked up. I burned that silly letter, and I'm hungry. Would you please leave me, Nini? I can't go out looking like this.  
I nodded and backed off towards the door, opening it slowly. Oui, Mademoiselle. I'll let myself out.  
Yes, see that you do, she nodded, then looked up as I was almost out.   
Oui, Mademoiselle?  
She smiled. I couldn't have asked for a truer friend. Thank you.  
I felt my cheeks redden and muttered a reply before escaping out of the room to backstage. My heart pounded in my ears as I stepped outside into the cool air, my entire body prickling with heat. A truer friend..._mon Dieu_, what had I done? She believe me to be her friend! Me! The one who had...who had...  
What _had_ I done?  
I wasn't sure, but I knew that I had done it, and that there could be no turning back now.  
  
~~~~~   
  
  
A/N: Okay, normally I loathe to do author's notes, because I think they detract from the story and are somewhat redundant. However, in this case I'll make an exception.  
I would just like to give a great, hearty _thank you_ to everyone who's reviewed and given me such positive feedback! Even to people who didn't like it, _thank you_ anyway for taking the time to read it and tell me why. (I'm one of the few individuals I've found who really doesn't care if I get bad reviews...in the end, it's just a story after all) A few specific points of comment, then I'll shut up:  
**CrimsonFuchia**: Yes, that's exactly what I was aiming for-- not that Satine is a bitch and Nini is an angel, but that we tend to see each other as good and our opponents as evil. It's just human nature. (One of the problems I had with the movie is that I felt that the characters were really rather one-dimensional: the Duke was Evil, Nini was a Bitch, Satine was Good, etc. I'm trying to expand them just a little.)  
**The Phantom**: Sorry about the French usage! My own French stinks, so I'm trying to keep it simple...the main thing that everyone says is:  
_Mes Amis:_ My Friends'  
_Mon Dieu: _My God'  
_Dieu M'Aident:_ God help me'  
I always thought Nini was French, but it was hard to tell in the movie: after all, The Duke had a decidedly English accent, and for a French courtesan, Satine sounded awfully Australian. Oh, and as for Toulouse...I found him the most adorable character in the film (Christian? Who's Christian). Look for him in future updates.   
  
Okay, I'm shutting up now. See you all in Chapter Nine...


	9. Burning Embers, 1899

  
  
  
  
  
Burning Embers, 1899--  
  
  
I had caught her off-guard.   
That was the only excuse I gave myself as to her behaviour. Surely, that _had_ to be it! She'd never given a damn about me before, hardly ever seemed to know I existed, and now, after weeping openly in my presence, she called me her truest friend?  
Stupid. Ridiculous. Absolutely mad.   
It was simple, I argued with myself. Satine was upset. I was there. It's the most natural thing in the world, it could have happened to anyone. Had it been Arabia and not Nini, Môme Fromage and not Nini, she would have acted the exact same way.   
Right?  
She had cast me into doubt, and I didn't appreciate it at all. It made me angry, that the first step of my grand scheme to save the Moulin should go down in flames, simply due to a few little tears. It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that I should have had to go through so much emotional turmoil to at first feel happy, and then be plunged into the darkest depths of regret. Not fair at all.   
A shadow of worry fell on me, and wouldn't leave me for the rest of the day. Even when rehearsals closed (with Satine looking radiant, as always), after the Moulin's usual nightly festivities, and several glasses of alcohol, the shadow stayed with me like a persistent cold. _Maybe,_ it whispered to me when my mind wasn't occupied with other things, _maybe you've got her all wrong. Maybe she's not how you think. Maybe you should give her a chance...  
_Oh, shut up! I roared at it during one of its more vigorous recitals. What the Hell do you know about it? Shut up!  
Marie's shocked voice bypassed the shadow's instance. What's the meaning of such language? And such rudeness!  
I'm sorry, Marie, I apologised quickly. I wasn't talking to you, I just... I stopped there, thinking how strange it would sound to say I was just talking to the voice inside my head'. Instead I just shook my head. It's nothing. Nothing at all.  
Are you quite all right? she asked, a little more gently. You've been seeming awfully strange as of late. Are you ill?  
I...no, Madame, I don't think so. I paused. Have I?  
She nodded a little, concern creeping into her voice. So distant. Like you've lost a spark. If you want, I could ask M. Zidler to...  
I nearly shouted in her face. No! I...I'm all right, Marie, I'm all right! I just...I just need time to think about things, that's all.  
Marie smiled sympathetically. I know what this is all about, she said. Don't try to hide it from me.  
My heart plummeted to the pit of my stomach as I heard those words. I...you do?  
Oh, yes, she said, then added conspiratorially. It's just the stress, that's all. These rehearsals are always a stressful time, Nini, believe me, I know! But don't worry, dear. Soon they'll be over with and you'll feel much better. Much more relaxed.  
I can tell you, _mes amis_, that I _already_ felt much more relaxed, but nodded. Oui, Madame, I'm sure you're right. Yes, it's just these silly rehearsals! Stress and all that.  
She nodded and lay a hand on my shoulder gently. Right. Now you just trot off to bed, young lady. You'll feel much better after a long night's rest.  
I knew that no amount of sleep could help to cure me, but I did not tell her that and instead went to my room.  
  
I asked her later as we lay in our beds. Suppose...suppose you knew that someone was doing something that you didn't think was right... my speech was getting lamer by the minute. And that it would hurt people you knew dearly, and yourself, but...but when you tried to confront the person, they made you feel like crap for trying to persuade them from doing what they wanted to do...what would you do?  
China Doll looked at me for a moment, trying to figure out just what the Hell I was saying (and, personally, I couldn't blame her). After a while she answered, puzzled. Well, I guess...God, Nini...I suppose I would drop the subject. Is it anyone I know?  
No! No, it's...what do you call it, hypothetical?  
What's that?  
Never mind. But you'd leave it all alone, even if it meant that bad things would happen because of it?  
Well, I don't know, she said. The thing is, Nini, why would you want to get involved in the first place? I mean, if it doesn't directly involve you, I think you should stay out of everybody's way and see how it plays out.  
But Goddamn it, China! I barked. I don't want to get fucked, either!  
the voice was Marie's, from somewhere down the hall. Any more language like that and I'll bring it up with M. Zidler.  
Oui, Madame, I called back, then dropped my voice, continuing. You see what I'm in, don't you? Should I try to do something, or not?  
Oh, _God_, Nini, she groaned, closing her eyes. I don't know! Can't you just drop it and go to sleep?  
I growled, pounding my pillow and settling down. Fine! I'll just leave it alone. Are you happy now?  
I'd be happier if you'd just let me sleep, she grumbled, and I heard the mattress creak as she rolled over. After a while I could here her soft breathing deepen, becoming regular as she fell asleep. I, on the other hand, was unable to do so. My brain was tearing itself apart over my dilemma, the little voice of doubt mocking me at every turn. _Goddamn_ it, this wasn't fair!  
After a while my unwelcome guest was interrupted by laughter coming from the street below. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked outside, peering through the night to the streets below. On a side street, near the _Hôtel L'amoure, _I could see two figures twirling in the moonlight, oblivious to everything around them as they were lost in their dance.   
_You can tell everybody this is your song...  
_Satine and her Englishman. Of course. Who else could it possibly be, besides the scourge of my existence and her paramour? The moonlight caught in her hair, highlighting the pale skin and fragile frame that customers shelled out so much for night after night. The Englishman, Christian, was doing his best to appear handsome and dashing, but he may as well have looked like a pile of horse shit next to the glory that was Satine.   
As I watched their shadows play in the light-- dancing, embracing, laughing-- I began to feel a burning deep inside that only increased with every glance. I felt my cheeks get hot and growled, my anger rising. _If I can't be happy_, I vowed to myself, _well, why should she be granted that? _I didn't care that it was me she turned to when she was upset, I didn't care that she had called me her truest friend. I didn't need friends! I didn't want friends! And I most certainly did not want to be _her_ friend!   
No more hesitation, Nini, no more worry. No more second-guessing, no more regrets. The Moulin was going down in flames with each kiss, each touch, each song, and there was only one person that could stop it. Me! No, I wasn't going to let Harry down, not him, not Marie, or China Doll or Chocolat...I wasn't about to let them wither and die while Satine kept up her flirtations.   
Something happened that night, something that I can't truly explain, but experienced all the same. I think...I think something died in me that night, as I watched the lovers dance in the window. Whatever loyalty I may have had towards Satine withered away, while a new feeling-- a renewed loyalty to the Moulin, to my home-- welled in its place.   
There would be no more regrets. 


	10. Pride Before the Fall, 1900

  
  
  
  
  
Pride Before the Fall, 1900--  
  
I was late to rehearsals the day I pulled off my greatest act.   
I'd spent the morning in the bathtub, clearing my mind, steeling my nerve. There's something about a hot bath that's good for the spirit. Makes you feel invinsible, but...Hell, I don't know. I was getting mushy again. What a pudding I was getting to be.   
My late entrance caused no fanfare among the cast, who was busy going over the last few details. The play was set to run tomorrow night, and the air was filled with apprehension. I sat down among a group of girls, all watching the performances in disinterest. The girl next to me looked up from her fingernails to glance at me. Glad you could make it, she said. I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss this.  
Oh, of course not, I groaned, crossing my arms across my chest. I had come into the rehearsals in the middle of a passionate song declaring their eternal love. I noticed with interest that the leading lady wasn't sharing these passions with her co-star, who was slumbering peacefully in the corner, but instead with none other than the Englishman. Somehow, I wasn't surprised.   
_Come what may,_ they sang to each other, oblivious as always. _Come what may! I will love you..._ It was interesting, because no matter how hard i tried, I couldn't remember this being written into the script.   
When the song finally ended, Christian flipped through his script until he came up with the right place. Now, here-- Toulouse, listen a moment, this is for you-- the magic sitar falls from the roof and says, The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return'. You have that?  
Toulouse nodded, reading over the lines. I've got it, he called back, and I watched his lips move as he went over the line over and over.   
I watched them on stage rehearsing their lies of love, my heart pounding in my chest. I glanced around the room, my eyes finally settling on the figure of the Duke sitting in front of the stage, looking up at the stage, his eyes glued to Satine. I stood up nonchalantly, rubbing my back and walking slowly up towards him, stopping beside him casually. I took a breath and leaned down, the scent of his hair oil tickling its way up my nostrils.   
This ending's silly, I declared. The Duke looked up at me, surprised, asking me to continue. I was only too happy to oblige. Why would the courtesan go for the penniless writer? I asked innocently, before contorting my face into one of astonishment. I cried. I meant _sitar player_.  
But I didn't even need to have said those words. The Duke looked at me, his eyes wide as he realised the weight of my words, before turning back to the spectecal on stage. The cast was finishing the declarations of love that practically none of them had ever really known, and all the while Satine and her Englishman were staring into each other's eyes and turning into puddles of butter onstage. It was disgusting.  
My work here was done. As I walked away, I smiled as I heard the Duke clear his throat and speak up. I don't like this ending...  
  
I lit a cigarette in the street behind the club, sitting on the kerb and watching the street life pass me by. I hardly ever smoked, but I felt that I deserved this, as a reward for good behaviour. My heart rate had slowed down considerably, and I allowed a smile to dance onto my face for a slight moment. I'd done it. If I hadn't accomplished anything else in my life, I'd told someone about what was happening. I'd helped the Moulin.   
For once in my life, I'd told the truth.  
It was a liberating feeling, to have finally_ said it_, to get it out in the open! It made me feel different somehow, like I was a new person. Like the person sitting in the back of a club smoking a cheap cigarette wasn't Nini Legs-in-the-Air, prostitute and cancan dancer, but someone else entirely. A new woman. A real diamond.  
  
The voice broke through my revierie, crashing my dreams to the ground. I looked up to see Toulouse standing in the doorway, his face set in stone. What the Hell have you done?  
I dropped my cigarette on the road and ground it out with my shoe. I haven't the slightest idea what you mean.  
Toulouse stalked up to me, his eyes blazing from behind their glass walls. Don't give me that, Nini, you know exactly what I'm talking about! What the Hell were you thinking, Nini? Who gave you the right to tell the Duke about them? Who?  
Now, you listen to me for a minute! I roared, standing until I towered over him. Who the Hell gave _them_ the right to act like that? You tell me that, why don't you? Who gave them the right to put our jobs at risk, to make us worry that we're going to end up on the streets? Why don't you tell me that?  
Toulouse huffed at me, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. I don't know why you had to go and _do_ something like that, he said. What happened to the Bohemian Ideals? What happened to love?  
Love? Who has time for that? I growled. I sure as Hell don't. Listen, I argued. I don't know anything about these Ideals, and neither do any of the other girls. All we know is that Satine's putting us all at risk and if I didn't tell him...  
Then what? he barked. The end would be the same for you.  
I narrowed my eyes. What do you mean?  
I know that you told the Duke, and if I know, than Christian knows, and Satine knows, and eventually Zidler will find out. Now, he can find out sooner or later. If I go in there, he said, looking up at me sternly. And I tell Zidler that you put his production at risk, then you'll be on the street before the day's finished.  
I stared at him, shocked. I...no, you wouldn't, I shook my head. You wouldn't! My God, you _want_ me to lose my job, don't you?  
At this point, that seems like a very plesent thought.  
I...oh, _Christ,_ Toulouse. Listen, I...oh, _merde..._ I took a breath and looked down to look his square in the eye. It's not...I'm not doing this out of spite, Toulouse, I just...listen, can I speak to you later? In private, perhaps? The thought of it made my stomach fairly turn, but I continued. Maybe I can...help you see things my way? I added hopefully, an eyebrow arched.   
Toulouse stared up at me coldly, his eyes narrowed. he said after a while. Come over to the hotel about six. Then we can sit down and...discuss this, he spat out, barely able to contain his anger.   
we heard Zidler call from the stage. We need you for a moment!  
Oh, _mon Dieu_, he groaned, looking back. He glared up at me, raising a finger. Tonight. Six o'clock.  
Oh, don't worry, Toulouse, I said. I wouldn't miss _that_ for anything.  



	11. A Portrait of the Artist, 1900

  
  
  
A Portrait of the Artist, 1900--  
  
  
_Nini. I've gone out to get a drink. Key under the mat, wait inside. Be back soon. Toulouse.'  
_This note greeted me after I'd already climbed the forty-two stairs to the top of the _Hôtel L'Amoure, _where Toulouse kept his flat. For someone with as much difficulty walking as he did, it puzzled me as to why he would choose such a Godforsaken place to live. Maybe it was a form of punishment for sins. I didn't know, and I still don't.  
Opening the door, I was hit with the smells of paint and turpentine rolling over me in a wave that almost made me want to wait in the hall. The flat was small, furniture and paintings low enough for the artist to be able to use them comfortably. Several canes stood near the door, shined and waiting for their tour of duty. I sighed in irritation and walked to the window next to the tiny bed (a good foot shorter than most I'd ever seen), staring out into the street. The rudeness of that man, to tell me on no uncertain terms to be here at six, and then to cut out to get drunk! It wasn't fair. Nothing seemed fair these days.  
My internal rant was interrupted by a sharp knocking on the door. I turned away from the window, groaning. Coming, coming! I shouted at the knock came, faster and more urgent. I opened it and crossed my arms. Toulouse is out right now. Can't say when he'll be back.  
The man standing there was one I didn't recognise, and he scratched about a day's worth of stubble as he looked at me. I didn't want to see him, actually, he said. Mademoiselle Nini? It is Nini, isn't it?  
I narrowed my eyes, looking over his threadbare suit and scarred knuckles. Oui, oui, I'm Nini. Who are you?  
He shook his head. That doesn't matter. May I...may I ask you a question, Mademoiselle?  
I sighed. If you must. Go ahead.  
Do you believe in love?  
I looked at him, taken aback. Did I believe...what sort of a question was _that? _I-- I don't get it. What do you mean, do I believe in love?  
Love, mademoiselle, he stated simply. The purest emotion in the world. Do you believe in it?  
I groaned and turned to go. This is stupid, I told him, and I'm not going to answer. Au revoir, Monsieur.  
I hadn't gone more than a step before felt his hand clamp around my arm, nails digging into my skin, fingers pressing firmly into my flesh. I looked back at him in shock. I protested. What the Hell do you think you're doing?  
Do you believe, Mademoiselle Nini?  
I pulled against his grip, trying to pry his fingers of my arm. Let go of me! I yelled. Come on, shove off!  
Not until you tell me! _Do you believe in love?_  
_Yes! _Yes, I do! Now, would you--  
Then I have something to give you, he said. Something to remind you not to interfere with love.  
I opened my mouth to speak, but there was no use. A horrible, solid cracking noise drowned out my words as my face erupted in pain and I fell to the floor, my body exploding in pain. I looked up at him, backlit against the harsh light of the hall. I...oh, God...I...  
He looked at me a moment longer, and then I felt his shoe slam into my ribs, sending rivers of fire down every nerve. I curled up on the floor, barely able to keep tears of pain and fury from running down my cheeks, gasping in small, choked breaths. My visitor reached down and grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet to face him. I sagged a little, and he tightened his grip, his hands crushing my skin. He stared at me coldly before speaking. Now, you listen, and you listen good, you little slut, he growled. If you ever, ever meddle in the affairs of the Duke and the affairs of the theatre, this is going to seem like a broken fingernail. Do you understand me?  
I nodded dumbly, my head swimming in pain and confusion. The man seemed to takes this as a yes', and responded by throwing me away, watching as I landed hard on my shoulder in the middle of the room. I lay there for a moment, tensing as I heard his footsteps come closer. I squeezed my eyes shut in anticipation of another kick or punch, but was instead rewarded with a flutter of bills that rained down on me. There's for your time, he said, and walked away, slamming the door behind him.  
I couldn't allow myself to breathe freely, not just yet, until I could hear his footsteps on the stairs, fading away into nothing. I opened my eyes, looking at the money that had been thrown carelessly on top of me, and let myself take a breath, a real one. My entire body seemed as if it had been doused in kerosene and lit, with everything rippling in pain. I fancied that I could even feel my eyelashes burn.  
Slowly, methodically, I dragged myself out of the middle of the room to the tiny bed tucked away under the window. _If I can just get there, just sleep a little,_ I thought,_ than everything will be okay. _I clutched at the sheets in a weak grip, pulling myself up to a sitting position before I rather inelegantly flopped onto the mattress and rolled onto my back, my body protesting every action.  
It was then that the darkness overcame me.   
  
The darkness surrounded me like a protective blanket, coaxing me back to the world of the living while at the same time keeping me shielded from all outside. I don't know how long I lay there on the tiny bed like a broken, discarded doll, my eyes slightly open but looking at nothing, the darkness wrapping itself around me like a shroud. It might have been years, or only a few minutes. The beauty of darkness.  
After a while I began to hear other noises above those of the street-- two quick steps, then a sharper one as if from a cane, then a low song. _There was a boy,_ the voice sang, a little off-key but sincerely. _A very strange, enchanted boy..._ there was the rattle of keys in the lock. _They say he wandered very far, very far..._ the door opened, sending a shaft of light into the room before it was closed again. _Over land and sea, a little..._ he trailed off then, hearing my shallow breathing. he called, turning on the light. Hello, Christian? Is that you?  
I pulled myself carefully to my feet, wincing as I felt a sharp stab of pain in my ribs. I groaned. Where the Hell were you?  
he sounded surprised. What are you doing...oh. Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, I forgot the time. I was... he came a little closer, peering at me intently through his spectacles. Nini? Are you all right?  
I'm fine, I snapped, turning away quickly towards the window. I could feel a bruise beginning to flower on my skin, and I cursed inwardly. Now, you wanted to talk to me, and I don't have a lot of time. Start talking.  
Toulouse looked at me suspiciously, but began. It's not a difficult question, Nini. I just want to know why.  
Why what?  
Why did you have to tell the Duke? Why did you have to ruin their love?  
I told you, I said. I don't want to end up on the street. I thought that...  
That by telling the Duke something he _didn't need to know,_ he growled. That you could hold it off further?  
I...Toulouse, for God's sake, can't you see it my way for once? I asked. If I can be frank, I don't give a rat's ass about these ideals you keep talking about! What I care about is living another year. I care about my friends living another year. I care about saving up enough money so that I don't have to spend the rest of my life flat on my back with men I don't know! That's what I care about, Toulouse, not truth or beauty or love! Save that for the artists and writers, because whores just don't have time for them.  
Toulouse was very quiet for a moment, staring at a half-finished painting, his hands clasped behind his back. So you don't care, he said after a while. That doesn't mean that Satine doesn't.  
Maybe, but at this point I think Satine only cares about herself. I said, turning to face him. It's fine to feel love, I've got nothing against it. But for God's sake, I think she should feel a little love for us, too.   
But Nini, if you'd just... his voice faded as he looked at me. Nini...what happened to your face?  
I cursed my own stupidity and turned away again, my cheeks burning as I looked out the window. I huffed. Just one of your bohemians decided to ask me the same question you did. I paused. Except he asked it a little stronger.  
One of my..._who?_  
What the fuck do you care? I asked bitterly. You probably set him up to do it, in the first place.  
Me! Nini, my God, would I do something like that?  
Why not? You hate me, I can see that much! Everyone hates me! I try to do good, for Christ's sake, I do try! But what the Hell does it matter? Why the Hell do I try anymore? I sat down on the edge of the tiny bed, rubbing my forehead. I knew that I was babbling, but I was pissed off and I didn't care. I mean, fuck it, Toulouse. Maybe I should just let them go on, huh? Maybe I should just let the Moulin rot! What does it matter to me in the end, anyway? Oh, _Christ_...  
Toulouse said nothing, just crossed over to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Green Fairy. I didn't blame him. At that point, I would have preferred her company to mine. I sighed and looked up at the clock. It was almost eight o'clock, and Señor José had called together a meeting at eight-forty-five. To distract us, I suppose, from the thought that Satine was getting banged in the tower. I didn't care, myself, but I had to show up, all the same. I stood up slowly, rubbing life into my aching body, passing my fingers carefully over the bruises as I walked to the door. My hand was on the knob when I heard the voice behind me. His voice.  
Where are you going?  
The club, I said quietly. We've got a meeting. I've got to go.  
Toulouse put down his glass and walked over to me in his tottering gait. He took my hand off the doorknob and shook his head. Not like that, you aren't. He led me away from the door to the small studio, where he pushed me down into a chair. You aren't going into the club looking like you've been thrown down a flight of stairs. I won't have it.  
Well, what do you want me to do? I asked, a little harsher than i meant, but I was tired and in no mood to argue. If I don't go, do you know what they will say about me? About Nini, the unfeeling bitch, who will not even join her coworkers as they mourn for the love of the star? For God's sake, Toulouse...  
Wait just a minute, he said sternly. If I can't make you stay, the least I can do is make you look a little more...presentable. Wait right here.  
I watched him as he walked towards the huge easel that dominated the room, bending down stiffly to pull his paint box onto a table. He rummaged around in it for a while before selecting a few tubes of paint and some brushes and carrying them back to me. Now, just hold still, and try not to move your face too much.  
Toulouse, what the Hell...  
Shhh, Mademoiselle. Let the artist concentrate, hmm? He began to mix the paints, all creams and peaches and yellows, onto a palette, humming to himself as he did so. I waited patiently until he felt he got the colour right, wondering just what he intended to do. Hold out your hand, Mademoiselle.  
My hand? Why?  
Just let me see it. Please?  
I tentatively held it out, and he examined it critically before dipping the brush into the paint and teasing it over my skin. He looked down at the swatch and smiled in approval, dabbing more paint onto the brush. Now, hold very still, and close your eyes, he instructed. I need to concentrate.  
I did as I was told and waited, hardly letting myself breathe. After what seemed and eternity I felt a light teasing on my cheek, near where the bruise started, working in slow circles on my skin. I tried to suppress a laugh, smiling. That tickles.  
Shhh, try not to move, he said quietly, closer to my face than I had expected. I could feel his breath on my skin and it danced up my nostrils, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes branding into my brain. If you move too much, it will wrinkle.  
The brush moved further up my cheek to the corner of my eye, where it moved in soft, firm strokes to spread the paint on my face, peach over purple. I could hear him hum to himself softly as he continued his work, gently adding lighter tones to blend into my natural skin colour, a slow, sad song that somehow seemed fitting in this small, cheerless room. I let my mind drift as the brush played over my face, the soft hairs caressing and kissing my skin. It felt to me the purest touch in the world.  
Just a little water, Toulouse told me as I jerked at cold drops falling onto my face. So it doesn't cake up. He spread the water over the paint with his fingers, softly touching the tender areas on my cheek with precision. He finally took away his fingers and sighed. There, much better. Open your eyes.  
I did so, and Toulouse handed me a mirror, pressing it into my palm with anticipation. I lifted it up to look at myself, my heart almost stopping dead in my chest. There was no distinction as to where the paint ended and my skin began, no way of telling. It was as if the ugly flowering had never happened, as if I had never met that Boho. It was art, and it was me.   
I put down the mirror, blinking as I looked at him, not able to form the words that spun in my head. I...merci, Toulouse. _Merci_. I sighed and regained my composure. Now, how much do I owe you?  
He looked startled. _Owe_ me? I...you don't owe me anything. I couldn't ask you to _pay_ me for something that little.  
I shook my head. Hell, Toulouse, I can't just leave it like that, I argued, fishing out my purse. Listen, I don't have much, but...  
He raised a hand, shaking his head. Nini, please, he said. That's not...it's really not necessary. It was a favour, that's all. There's no need.  
But you can't have done that for nothing! I argued. Let me give you something, please? Just a little?  
Nini, I'm not going to take your money!  
I stared at him, frowning. For once in my life, I actually _wanted_ to give something, and now I couldn't? What sort of justice was this? Foolish man! Short, drunk...unwanted...untalented...As I looked at him, my brain made me do one of those silly, impulsive things that I can't control and which usually cause me trouble. This one, however, caused me more surprise than anything else.  
Without thinking about it, I leaned forward and crushed his mouth with my own.  
He jerked back a bit, startled, but didn't break the kiss. After a second of considering, I could feel him smile and return it with one of his own. We went on like this for a few moments longer before I pulled away, looking at him in amazement. I...oh, Hell, I...  
He smiled again. Mademoiselle Nini, he laughed. This is a most highly irregular form of payment.  
I'm sorry, I said, feeling my cheeks burn red under the paint. I shouldn't have done that, it was out of line.  
Oh, don't worry, he said quickly. I'm not offended. On the contrary, I'm rather... he paused a bit before continuing.   
I opened my mouth to speak but quickly closed it again when I caught the expression on his face. It was so open, so trusting, that it was hard to look at without feeling like crap. It occurred to me then, for the first time, just how rare and unusual that show of affection was for him, a person used only to ridicule and scorn for something he had no control over. I could almost feel the sheer loneliness he felt when he watched Christian or Señor José carry on their love affairs, and know that he could never have any part of them. What a life it must have been when the kiss of a prostitute seemed true love...my stomach turned and I had to hang my head as I felt hot salt sting my eyes. What a fool I'd been, not to notice!  
Toulouse shushed me, lifting my head up. Don't, please. It'll...it'll ruin the paint.  
I nodded and swallowed, dabbing at my eyes with my glove. Yes, yes. I'm sorry, I...it's the fumes, they stung my eyes, I said lamely. I sighed and leaned forward again, wrapping my arms around him. You're a good man, Henri, I whispered. I couldn't have asked for a better one.  
For a long time we just sat there, his head resting in the crook of my neck, my arms around him as if I was holding a doll. A living, breathing, brilliant, beautiful doll. I don't know how long we were there, just Henri and me, not saying a word to each other. It's amazing all that you can say without making a sound.   
My eyes drifted to the clock on the wall and I frowned. I should really go.  
Not yet, he said, his voice soft. Just...don't go just yet.  
I rested my chin on his head and smiled. _Mon Dieu,_ I breathed. The Whore and the Dwarf. What a pair we make.  
He laughed, not even bothering to correct my utterance of the D-Word'. You confuse me more every hour, he told me. This morning I was nearly ready to kill you. Now look at us. It doesn't make any sense.  
Nothing makes any sense anymore, I answered. That's the point of your Revolution, right? Things that don't make sense. I buried my face in his hair and kissed him gently. _Au revoir, mon petite capitaine._ Maybe I can start to believe again.  
  
  



	12. El Tango de Roxanne, 1900

  
  
  
  
Dedicated to Topaz, who's been hounding me for days.   
  
  
El Tango de Roxanne, 1900--  
  
Glad you could make it! one of the dancers yelled to me as I entered the room. Look, everyone, the great Mademoiselle Nini decided to grace us with her presence!  
Oh, shove off! I shouted back to her, rubbing my sore limbs. My admirer was certainly good at his job, I had to give him that. He knew exactly how to hit a lady, so that it hurt at first but faded soon afterward. I wouldn't be surprised if I hadn't received any bruises, except for the one on my face. He meant to give me that one.   
The theater was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, and silent as a tomb. No-one dared raise a voice, no-one dared to show any sign that they were anything but miserable. The air was thick with despair, the kind of despair that appears only at night, when your defenses are at their lowest. Despair whored her way through each of us, leaving behind her taint, which could only be banished with the sun's rays. However, sunrise was still hours off, and for now she held us in her grip.  
Christian was there, hiding in his shell, separating himself from the rest of us. He looked haggard, despondent. _This, Nini,_ I scolded myself, _is why you never love. _It was a vow I had taken years ago, and was now in danger of breaking. I added Christian's shattered appearance to my defenses. I never wanted to end up that way, never!  
I walked up to him slowly, my mind becoming dark and twisted with every step. It wasn't enough that he felt this way. It wasn't enough, not for me. To know that he had lost...well, that would have been enough. But to know that he had _loved_, and loved _still, _while I struggled to find one spark of that elusive flame in my own heart...it was too much for me to bear, and it poisoned my mind. So instead of offering sympathy, or a friendly hug, I hurt him. It was all I could do. Don't worry, Shakespeare, I said bitterly, remembering the pain that I had endured in the name of love. You'll get your ending, once the Duke gets his end _in._ The little, mild Englishman changed as if a shadow had passed over him. Roaring in anger, he rushed me, pushing me with a ferocity that took me by surprise. You keep your hands off me! I cried, regaining my balance and backing away, away from his enraged visage and unbalanced mind. I heard a few snickers behind me and brushed them off. It didn't matter.  
Señor José regarded Christian with a soft yet admonishing eye. Never fall in love with a woman who sells herself, he said sternly. It always ends bad. My mind flashed for a moment to my poor _capitaine _before it was brought back by the Señor's words. We have a dance in the brothels of Buenos Aires, he told him. It tells the story of a prostitute and a man who falls in love with her.  
His gaze fell on me, and my heart fluttered in my chest for a moment.   
Go on, Nini, one of the dancers whispered to me. Tell the story.  
Before I truly knew what was happening, or what I was doing for that matter, I found myself next to the Señor, the two of us staring at each other and circling, as if we were afraid that the other would strike. His arms looped around me, and we began to move in rhythm as he continued to speak. First there is desire, he informed the spectators that had ringed around us. Then passion. Then... suspicion! His face contorted and I stepped away hurriedly. Jealousy, anger, betrayal! He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back into his arms. When love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust, he boomed as he pulled me closer. Without trust there is no love. Jealousy, yes, jealousy, will drive you...will drive you... _mad!  
_This note rang through my ears, wriggling into my brain like a snake after its prey. I did not know what I was doing, not really, but it was as if I had been doing it my entire life. My feet seemed compelled by some higher force, kicking and twisting as if they had a life of their own. My own mind seemed a million miles away, somewhere high above the Moulin Rouge, high above Montmartre, high above the world. I only barely heard his words, close as they were to my ear. _Roxanne! You don't have to put on that red light. Walk the streets for money, you don't care if it's wrong or if it is right. Roxanne! You don't have to wear that dress tonight... Roxanne! You don't have to sell your body to the night!_  
Oh, but she did, didn't she? We all did, all of us, Nini, Satine, this Roxanne who's praises the Señor sung up to the heavens. Who was she, this mysterious Roxanne? What had she done, how had she betrayed? How could she have garnered the love of a man, only to throw it away, to drown in suspicion and anger? How could she have become...how could she have become so very much like me?  
Without realising it, my dance became frantic, all cautions thrown to the wind as I dipped, turned and spun, his words pounding into my head. _Roxanne! Roxanne!_ She was all I could think about, all I could see. _Roxanne! Roxanne!_ Everything, everything in me, everything I had in my heard and my soul I showed them that night, and if they laughed or scorned me, I did not care! I did not care! Fear, anger, hopelessness, loneliness, despair, love, everything! I gave until there was no more to give, until my soul had been emptied of everything in it, and then I kept dancing. _Roxanne! Roxanne!_ Her name hounded me, spurred me on, kept my feet moving and my brain empty. She was the one dancing, _mes amis_, not Nini! Nini was dead for all I knew, or cared! I no longer cared about anything, not the Moulin, not Satine, not my job, just _Roxanne. _Oh, Roxanne, why must you do this to me? I have done nothing wrong, do not torture me in this way! Roxanne! Roxanne! Roxanne!  
And, suddenly, it stopped. My world just stopped. I looked into the Señor's eyes, and I couldn't recognise myself. i didn't know the woman that was standing there, _mes amis_, do you understand? I didn't know her anymore! Yes, she had Nini's body, Nini's face, but no, no, she was not Nini. Nini was gone, and I saw with sudden clarity who was there in her place.   
Roxanne! Roxanne!  
She had taken me over! She was inside Nini's body, making her do this infernal dance, directing her movements, and I was powerless to stop her.   
Roxanne! Roxanne!   
Nini! Nini!  
She was one and the same.


	13. Night of a Thousand Stars, 1900

  
  
  
Night of a Thousand Stars, 1900--  
  
  
Don't go...  
Shhh, I've got to, you know that. Go back to sleep.  
What's the point? he yawned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. I've got to start the day sometime.  
I uncurled my legs from where they pressed against the foot of the tiny bed, which still swamped _mon petite capitaine_, and stepped onto the cold floor. I wrapped my dress around myself and walked to the stove, the logs inside glowing with the last sparks of fire. I poked around in them and added another match. The stove glowed with new life, filling the cramped room with its warmth.   
I heard the floorboards creak behind me and felt two arms wrap around my waist, a head resting on my back. The greatest thing you'll ever learn, he told me matter-of-factly, is just to love and be loved in return. See? I did remember it.  
I smiled and pulled his arms away. I never doubted you for a moment, Henri, I said. I walked over to my bag and pulled out several jars of makeup. I put them into his hands and sat down. Now, then, Monsieur Artiste, do Nini a favour and help her with her makeup.  
With pleasure, he answered, and sat down across from me. As he began to brush the concealing powder over my cheek, he smiled. You're healing very nicely, Mademoiselle. I suspect you'll be fine in a couple of days.  
Yeah, well, I'm used to it, I answered, then changed the subject. I heard we're changing the ending?  
He nodded. Oui, you heard correctly. The Maharaja gets the girl.  
I shrugged. Doesn't make much difference to me, I said. How's the Englishman holding up about it?  
Toulouse sighed and stopped with the brush. Not terribly well, I'm afraid, he answered.   
I looked at him, questioningly.   
She told him that she doesn't love him, he answered after a while, continuing work on his living canvas. I tried to help him, but he won't have any of it.  
Doesn't _love_ him? I asked, incredulous. That's-- pardon the expression-- _bullshit!_ Why, she told me herself that... I stopped, remembering that she hadn't, actually, told me that she loved him, only that she thought she did. I continued. Do you believe that? Tell me the truth.  
For God's sake, Nini, he said impatiently. I don't know _what_ to believe anymore. This whole play, this whole expression, has been a sham from the beginning.  
I raised an eyebrow. How do you mean?  
I mean that...oh, Hell, I don't know _what_ I mean, he grumbled, then held up the mirror. How do you like it?  
I looked at my reflection and nodded. _Parfait_. Now, I said, looking at the clock. I really have to get going if I want to have any hope of getting to rehearsal on time. Au revoire, Henri. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead before getting up and going over to the door. I called to him. The greatest thing you'll ever learn...  
Is just to love and be loved in return, he finished, smiling. Don't worry, Mademoiselle. I won't forget.  
  
I pulled my shoes on, grumbling a little as they pinched my toes. They were of a horrible construction, with the heel nearly resting on the arch of my foot. I wasn't sure how I was to even walk in them, much less engage in the tantric cancan'. I looked at myself in the mirror, at the garish red stripes painted onto my skin, at the white powder that made me look half-dead. It was a hideous get-up, but it covered what Toulouse couldn't hide.   
China Doll sat next to me, touching up her costume and patting down her hair. Look at me! she exclaimed happily. Satine isn't the only Hindu Courtesan around here, let me tell you!  
I already know, I said, tugging on the bright yellow trousers that fit uncomfortably around me. But at least _she_ gets to wear nicer colours.  
Oh, stop complaining, she chided me. It's just one night. You won't die.  
I opened my mouth to snap something incredibly witty and scathing at her, but Marie's booming voice drowned me out. Places, girls! she shouted to us from the door. Places The night is young, and the house is full!  
And my feet hurt, I grumbled, swaying slightly as I made my way backstage. The area was full of technicians, engineers, and scenery masters, all hired to make tonight's performance seamless. They had all got their own rehearsal' of sorts weeks ago, when Harry realised just how much effort this play was going to take.   
A gust of wind blew through the open stage door, and I shivered in my flimsy costume. I walked towards the door to close it, and halted when I heard a voice come from my left. I only want to say this once, you hear me? it barked. Don't make me tell you again!  
My blood ran cold as the voice continued, even more irritated than before.  
Now, you're to have the carriage waiting when the play is finished. Do you understand me?  
Do you understand...I'd heard that before. I'd heard it recently, and I'd heard it at the receiving end. I chanced a peek around the curtain to see a mountain of a man speaking to a smaller, more timid coachman. The threadbare suit was gone, and he was freshly shaven...but no, no, there could be no mistake about it.   
I tucked back behind the curtain as he turned around, my heart pounding against my ribs. I hissed as she passed close by. That man, over there. Who is he?  
What? What man?  
I jerked my head in his direction impatiently. The one speaking to the coachman. Who is that?  
She peered around the curtain and shrugged. Oh, him? That's Warner. Works for the Duke, I think. Heard that he gave Gypsy a real workout last week.  
the name drove a spike into my brain. Warner! So he was the one who...a shiver crawled up my spine at the memory of his face looking down at me, of his casual demeanor as he threw a pile of money onto me as if I were just another whore. Warner! I narrowed my eyes as I hurried to my starting position just in time to hear the overture start on the greatest night of my life.  
  
Warner, Warner, Warner! The damned man just wouldn't leave my head! Even as I went through the steps I'd committed to memory, even as I sang loudly to the audience words I didn't even understand, but had learned all the same, his leering face, his hard mouth tore through my mind. As my partner picked me up and spun me around, I had to stop myself from kicking him, convinced as I was that it was Warner, not he, that was holding me.   
Besides my preoccupation with the face in the front row (whom I tried to ignore, but at the same time couldn't), the play went off without a hitch. Señor José threw himself into his part with a passion I hadn't seen before, and Harry played the part of the evil Maharaja with inhuman glee. For once, everything was seeming to go right for a change.   
Of course, nothing in my life has ever gone truly right, and tonight would show no exception.  
The cruel hand of Fate decided not to twist our universe to her liking until the third act, when I was sure everything would go well. Harry was onstage, Satine behind the scenery, and the dancers were all hidden, prepared for the cue that would send us out, twirling and leaping, to celebrate the wedding of the Maharaja and his beloved Hindu Courtesan. The play would end the Duke's way, and then we would all be famous.  
Fate has a nasty way of playing pranks on us all.   
I was lagging behind my partner, trying to rub some life into my aching feet, and watching out for Marie, who would undoubtedly browbeat me for being out of position. I heard some calling, some scuffling, and turned to see Satine and...her Englishman. Him! What was he doing here? I had thought that he'd left her to wallow in his misery, as so many English seem to do when confronted with emotion.   
Satine hissed at him urgently. Please, go!  
But if it wasn't real, he insisted, then why can't I pay you?  
To tell the truth, I was about to agree with his logic wholeheartedly, but then saw something-- or, rather, someone-- that pulled my thoughts away from the drama backstage to the one on-stage. Warner. Warner, that slimy, horrid bastard had found his way back here! _Here! _This was where I ruled, where I lived, where I belonged...not him! He didn't belong here, not now, not ever! As the play went on, I only half-heard the ad-libbed lines, only half-saw that it was Christian on-stage, not Señor José, only half-realised that my dreams of the night making us famous, of saving the Moulin from itself, were slipping out of my fingers.  
I didn't see any of it. I only saw Warner.  
Please believe me, _mes amis_, when I tell you that I did not even see the gun, did not even know of its presence there that night until I heard about it from one of the dancers. All I could concentrate on was Warner, Warner the Pig, Warner the Devil, Warner! I did not even know what I was doing, not really. All I knew was that I wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt me. I'm not sure how the sandbag got its way into my hands, or how I came to aim it over the crowds and release it just as the Devil, the Pig, came into my sights. It was a greater force than Nini, _mes amis. _Perhaps even the same force that compelled Satine and her Englishman to perform the play their way. I saw the bag drop, saw Warner crumple to the ground, and smiled. I had won. I, Nini, had _won!_ My life could have ended at that moment, and I didn't care. I showed myself that I was stronger than any muscleman filled with money. He had nothing on Nini! She had won!   
When I went onstage to finish the play, to celebrate the reunion of the Hindu Courtesan and her Penniless Sitar Player, I smiled. Not for Satine, not for Harry, but for Nini, the only one that mattered in the world.   
  
When the applause roared throughout the house, seeming to shake the foundations to pieces, as the air filled with shouts and cries. I felt my cheeks burn red and a smile dance onto my face as I looked out at them all, standing from their chairs, filling the aisles, cheering. Cheering for us. For Satine. For Christian. For me.   
It was exhilarating to stand there, before those crushing crowds, up on stage with the other dances and performers, Harry looking at us all proudly, in triumph. And it _was_ a triumph, _mes amis_, it truly was! To know that I was standing up there, standing with my friends and fellow performers, bathed in praise, part of something so much bigger and greater than ourselves...it took my breath away. What a triumph indeed!  
I stole a glance behind me, and my eyes caught those of _mon petite capitain, _who smiled at me knowingly, and I knew then that he felt the same way that I did. The greatest thing you'll ever learn...there was truth in those words. Not just for the Hindu Courtesan and her Penniless Sitar Player, but for everyone. For Satine and Christian. Harry and his club. Even for Nini.   
A triumph indeed.   
The curtain closed over us, and we broke off into our cliques, laughing over flubbed lines or missteps, admiring our costumes, gossiping about the dance in the third row who may have been giving one of us the eye.   
I had no clique. No one wanted to admit to be friends with me, and frankly, I couldn't care less. Nothing really seemed to matter much to me anymore. For better or worse, the play was finished. Harry would get the reviews he hoped for, the Moulin would be packed night after night, Satine would have her Englishman. For once, everything seemed _right_ with the world.  
I was heading towards my dressing room when I heard an anguished cry behind me. I turned to see Arabia hurrying towards me, her hand over her mouth, her eyes red. I asked, noticing the tears streaming down her face, her makeup smearing off down her cheeks. What's wrong? What's happened?  
I...oh, God, Nini! she cried, burying her face in her hands. It's over, it's over for all of us, she... she couldn't continue, and pushed past me, choking on a sob. I watched her go for a moment, then walked towards where I saw a great mass of people-- dancers, technicians, everybody-- standing ringed around a spot on the stage, rose petals still falling gently onto them, their voices hushed.   
I pushed my way through the walls of bodies, struggling to see for myself the sight that had brought Arabia to tears and cast a gloom upon the house. I broke through the shoulders of the ring of men, and my heart stopped in my chest. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of the scene before me. Christian kneeled on the floor, his shoulders hunched against the thundering applause that still filtered backstage, rocking back and forth methodically, in his own world, oblivious to us all. Satine lay in his arms, her eyes closed, looking radiant as ever, even surrounded by all the workings of the stage. I peered closer at a spot on her face, something that looked like a rose petal, but was..._off_ somehow. My eyes widened and I took a step back as I realised what it was. I looked from Christian, hiding away from us, to Satine, lying like a doll in his arms, and then to the petals, the symbols of love, fall gently onto them, kissing them softly before flying away again, and I knew.   
Satine was dead. 


	14. March, 1901

  
  
  
  
March, 1901--  
  
And so my story ends.   
But, in truth, it ended a long time ago. It ended when the Moulin shut down, it ended when Satine died, it ended when Harry left. It all ended then.  
It's all over now. Everything has died with Satine. The Bohemian Revolution, Christian's love, the Moulin Rouge. Myself. Everything's changed. I've changed.  
It is sad to think that after all my trials, after everything I did to save the Moulin, I ended up exactly where I feared I would. Was it all for nothing? Did I fight, did I cry, for nothing? _Mon Dieu,_ say that that is not the truth. Say it! If it is, if I really did fight for nothing, I do not know how I'll be able to live with myself.   
Did I cause the death of the Moulin Rouge? No, at least, not by myself. In a way, we all did. It just couldn't survive, the way we treated it. Satine's stubbornness, Christian's risk-taking, Harold's relaxed attitude...no, there was no way our home could have survived. And it makes me sad to know that.  
Señor José went back to his brothels in Buenos Aires. Marie left for Austria, leaving no address. The Englishman has left for his homeland. As for the Four Whores, I am the sole remaining one. Môme Fromage died shortly after the Moulin closed. Her heart just couldn't stand the strain. China Doll drank herself to death within two months. Arabia, as far as I can tell, was last seen at the border with a gentleman of ill repute. I do not know if she is still living.  
I can barely say the same for myself. I am alive, certainly, but I do not truly know if I would call it living. I go from day to day methodically, my mind blank as I seek work, stand in line for charity, have a drink to ease my mind. No, it is not living. It is surviving.   
I saw _mon petite capitaine_ only three months ago. _Mes amis_, you would not recognise him now. I hardly did. He looks the same way he always did, of course, nothing's changed there. The same smile, the same laugh, the same tottering gait. But something has died in him as well. The end of the Moulin was much more for him than the closing of a nightclub. It was the end of his dream, of his Bohemian Revolution. Satine, the selfish hag, took it away.  
Henri told me the take more care of myself, to not let despair claim me as it had him. He cautioned me away from his life, from the same dreams that caused his downfall. I suppose I really must be more careful with myself these days, for his sake as well as mine. If I might confess something I have told no one else, _mon_ _petite capitaine_ left me with something besides his wisdom, something that grows inside of me with each passing day. I certainly hope, _mes amis_, that you understand my meaning, for I promised him that I would tell no one. He wants it that way. He says that it is best that his story ends with him. I do not know if I agree.   
And so my story ends, _mes amis_, with the end of one life and the beginning of a new one. How will I cope, how will I survive? I do not know yet, I am afraid, but I will think of some way. I have to. Perhaps my journey will be one of fortune, or one of failure. It is too early to tell.  
So, with that, I end my account.  
  
Adieu, my friends, I go off to glory. 


	15. Author's Final Butting In

  
  
  
AUTHOR'S FINAL BUTTING IN:  
  
  
Hmmm, now, that was certainly something, wasn't it? Not bad for a ff.net newbie' who failed pretty much all her English classes and (confession time!) only saw Moulin Rouge' once. Yes, just once, back when it opened. Haven't seen it since, haven't hired it. Nope. Pretty good for me, though, no?  
I'd just like to say, again, a big fat _thank you _to everyone who reviewed Confessions..', even if you didn't like it, even if you flamed it. People read my story! Yaaay! MAN, that feels niiiice.   
I see a sequel in the works, perhaps...Nini's life after the Moulin Rouge. Set during WWI, maybe...perhaps Christian will make an appearance...no, scratch that, he'll DEFINITLY make an appearance...oh, goody, I'm having so much fun thinking this up! Now, maybe some day I'll get down to _writing_ it...let me know if it sounds like a good idea, won't you? There's no point in me writing something if no one's going to read it. Reader/writer interaction is important to me!   
  
So, again, big fat hugs and kisses all around, thank you, and...I'm off!  
  
Adieu, my friends, I go off to glory!  
  
Cheers,  
Delia


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